Feed a Cold

... sniffle ... sniffle ...

Why is it called a cold when the only thing "cold" about it is the menthol effect of the Vaporub smeared under my stuffy nose?

My head is full of wet cement, my skin is fevered, my eyes and nose are dripping like wonky faucets, and my chest is smoking like a peat fire. It started on Sunday with the ominous scratchy throat. By Monday I was in full-blown sniffling self-pity, and am only slightly more miserable today than I will be tomorrow.

So why is it called a cold? And why can’t somebody cure it? I don’t get sick that often, otherwise I’d be tougher about a stupid little virus … you’d think.

Nights are the worst—and why is that??? Why do the symptoms return with a vengeance when the sun sets? I’m too hot, I’m too cold, I can’t breathe, my throat hurts, whine whine whine …

I will happily, however, tout the healing properties of green tea, won ton soup, chicken soup, and my wonderful Ter, who has supplied me with everything designed to help me feel less like death warmed over. The one thing she couldn’t make happen was a Flyer win last night—they lost at home to Vancouver, and while I snagged 4 pool points from the 3-2 score, I still wanted to shoot myself.

Wah.